


the husk and the golden man

by meios



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dementia, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Drug Addiction, Flashbacks, M/M, Murder, intimate, kind of cullen/samson?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, he had been a good man.</p><p>He is washed this morning as the first rays of pink sunlight illuminate the dust that always dithers in the air, fairy lights in the daytime. A rag goes over his shoulders, his arms, and there is a remembrance of calm here, with steam curling around him, thin hair wet and clean, and the hands of the man—strong, lion, bright, golden curls and dark circles, no sleep, no eating, traumatized, <i>no come with me I’ll show you something brilliant</i>, Lowtown in the evening, fires and dark skies, whispers in the blackness. The hands are calloused, large, gentle as they bring the cake of soap over old wounds, new scars.</p><p>There is no speech, no music in the air. He does not move lest he worry about his limbs again, all motivation sapped from him, the color gone from the very world—like Tranquility with the sunburst brand on their foreheads, wielded like a solution to a menial problem, unbidden, no love, no home, no family, no home, no home, no home, no heart, and he trembles just slightly, the other man giving him pause, the rag on the back of his neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the husk and the golden man

His gaze is lost. Only glass, twisted and warped until it cannot even reflect, refract, clouded, remain; there is only fog that overtakes the iris, the pupil, blocking out all things light and dark, beautiful and ugly, until there is only the semblance of loneliness there. He wears his brow in a pinched way, confusion lacing everything that he does, every movement, every blink of an eye, every beat of his heart.

 

Once upon a time, he had been a good man.

 

He is washed this morning as the first rays of pink sunlight illuminate the dust that always dithers in the air, fairy lights in the daytime. A rag goes over his shoulders, his arms, and there is a remembrance of calm here, with steam curling around him, thin hair wet and clean, and the hands of the man—strong, lion, bright, golden curls and dark circles, no sleep, no eating, traumatized, _no come with me I’ll show you something brilliant_ , Lowtown in the evening, fires and dark skies, whispers in the blackness. The hands are calloused, large, gentle as they bring the cake of soap over old wounds, new scars.

 

There is no speech, no music in the air. He does not move lest he worry about his limbs again, all motivation sapped from him, the color gone from the very world—like Tranquility with the sunburst brand on their foreheads, wielded like a solution to a menial problem, unbidden, no love, no home, no family, no home, no home, no home, no heart, and he trembles just slightly, the other man giving him pause, the rag on the back of his neck.

 

The scar from the Master’s blade is there.

 

“I thought I was doing the right thing.” His mouth does not move, lips parted, jaw set, and there is a flash of blue when he blinks, the smell of the dust from far underground in the air again, like it used to, and there is no touch, no warmth, the water is cold now, and he is being picked up.

 

Dressed: he is being dressed. His hair is wet and stringy, in front of unseeing eyes where a ragged breath draws, and he says, “He spun such nice stories, you know. Made promises, ‘hope instead of despair.’ Lyrium: didn’t care if it was red ’r blue.” His teeth are old tombstones, crooked and wrong in his mouth, and there are shackles now, heavy, insistent, anchoring.

 

Anchoring like the mages at the bottom of Kirkwall’s harbor, wrists bound and gagged with socks, children and mothers and fathers, boys and girls, elves and humans, prey for the fish when their flesh becomes soft enough. Stares turned upward toward the heavens, toward the Maker that never comes; they scream _why_ in their heads and the sea turns to ice and he is _quiet_ and he is _holy_.

 

Anchoring like the way they hold down an elderly man in the Gallows, spitting in his face, ripping at his hair, and he could say something, could do more than carefully look away, lips pursed; he could do more than turn away for the rest of his patrol and let the heavy door shut behind him, ignoring muffled shouts for help as the swords go unsheathed. Bones crack and skin splits and there are no more cries.

 

Anchoring like the way blue dust is, coloring his nostrils and staining his tongue, dirtying until there is nothing left and they control it and he is not in control and they burn him out and burn him alive until he is dead and a husk to be played with further and he writhes on the streets, wetness on his face that is not rain, and the rats only taste good when he has not eaten in days, and the coins only come in when he helps magic disappear from sight.

 

He calls the man _knight-captain_ and the golden man scowls, disgust painting his visage in oils, thick and unending, and confusion laces the air like poison, and he asks, _knight-captain, what is wrong_ , but only a shake of the head, a disappointed snarl, and he tries to stand at attention but to no avail: the golden man shoves him down, anchored.

 

Anchored like the elven woman that cuts him down, a slash of green in her palm that glows and glows and perhaps it had not been meant for her, but it is meant for her, and she looks at him with curious eyes as he falls to his knees and there is history around him but there is only the red voice crying out in a desperate, tuneless crack like the whip that does keep him, sate him like an animal, and she is the goddess that saves all.

 

“Cullen.” His voice is ashes, thickened in his throat like rot. His eyes see nothing and his eyes see everything, clearly and not. He is relieved. “You’re Cullen.”

 

The golden man says nothing, for there is fire around them and Hell rains down upon the earth, and the air smells like magic does, like the dust does, and there is a pain in the very bottom of his belly for it, an internal stab wound, weeping like a widow does. There is a roar like a great beast, and the Grand Cleric is dead and—

 

An office with a disorganized desk, cold and calming, and the anchored woman is waiting by the bookshelves and she offers the golden man a warm smile, a blank face for him, and there are words, and there are no bodies here, no scent of burning flesh, he does not fight, there are no swords and—

 

Visible ribcages and fights for scraps, getting caught for illegal fishing in the harbor for something to eat, battles with rats and then breaking their spines, drinking the blood because the water is not clean, the world is ending, and the hawking bird is in the center, lightning surrounding her as he takes his sword, his armor weighing heavily upon him, he just needs a sniff—

 

There are words being spoken to him, but he only just manages to register mouths moving, wide emerald eyes beacons in the fog, and he cannot breathe but he does not need to, and there are no bones that can be broken here and there is only silence in his head, no red voice with crimson pain, sharp, sharp, sharp until there is a fragment of sensation, but there are hands in front of him, one on the back of his neck, and his Master must be looking for him—

 

Master. Red, corruption, red, death, red, immortal, power, lies, promises, dust, _what are you doing to me this is wrong you heathen you abomination you hellspawn you darkspawn you are the Blight itself_! Dead, rocks suspended on green falling and crumbling with a body that has no more, and he tastes the red on his throat now, like bile but headier, slithering back down to his stomach lest he leave too much of himself behind.

 

“—e’s not responding. Shall I fetch Da—”

 

There is a clap against his ear drums and he is underwater like the mages in the harbor, starving fish picking at his skin like flakes of snow, bloated and unseeing, unknowing, looking towards the Maker for forgiveness that will never come, for monsters exist and they are not just stories to tell children at night, for he is one, has been one, has always been destined to be one.

 

He is a husk of rotted meat and he stares at the golden man.

 

And they are alone.

 

“Cullen,” he whispers, and there is no expression now, nothing but a halo of curls with a wraith of furs over his shoulders, and he is a proud creature and he is whole and he is holy. “Cullen,” he repeats and he smiles, he believes, but there is no sensation in un-death. “I’m sorry.”

 

There is no music in the world. The golden man does not reply.


End file.
